That’s what happens when it’s all fucked up. There’s no light. Heck, there’s not even a tunnel. You’re fucking stuck.

This is not your normal story of dispair and anguish. This is some end of the world shit right here. The Mayans couldn’t even see this coming. This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Worlds collide. “George, as we know him, ceases to exist.”

This, obviously, makes George upset.

I wasn’t exactly happy at the advertising agency I was working. The bosses were megalomaniac pieces of shit who changed their opinions every two seconds (understandable). They would push their ideas, no matter how inferior they were to others, just to flex some muscle on the underlings (again, highly understandable). They had exactly 0 backbone when it came to pushing said, in their minds superior, ideas on to upper management and clients, which to me is the most fucked up thing about it.

So basically, whenever some upper management type would complain and bitch about ideas and / or employees of the creative department, something they have absolutely no right to do whatsoever by the way, the bosses, Ren & Stimpy, would call an underling, who most likely would be a copywriter, and tell him to apologize for whatever indiscretion upper management thought the creative department did. Never mind that it was one of the bosses who pushed that idea (since it is technically his job to oversee all creative projects), never mind that sometimes it was the boss who came up with the idea and the execution was all his, he was the boss and, as such, is as infalible as Jesus.

So the last week of 2009, when everyone and their mothers decided to take a break, yours truly decided to take a leave since nothing was fucking happening at work. Bossman number 2, in his first order of action upon returning, decided to call me up on it and tell me I couldn’t. I told him that I had made plans (yes I know I am to blame, but this was a blessing in disguise for me) and that I was taking unpaid leave. Dude tells me he didn’t know about it (again how was he when he wasn’t in office is beyond me), and I say well yeah it was sort of last minute. So, he tells me either I show up today or not at all. Ooooooh, ultimatum! I told him to shove his ultimatum.

This was all a blessed event for me since I wanted to quit, told them I did, two weeks ago. It was honestly for me the best thing that could have happened.
Shooting myself would have been so much worse.

This book I’m now reading, This Is Where I Leave You, is exactly that kind of book. The main character, the protagonist, if you will, is this radio producer who comes back home to grieve the death of his father, and apparently, the Jewish thing to do in this case, is to sit shiva.

Sitting shiva is probably not a healthy way to grieve, but it sure is funny. They have to sit for seven days, locked up in the house (not really), and welcome guests and visitors and fellow grievers. It’s not as funny when your family isn’t as fucked up as Judd Foxman’s.

Anyway, on top of the fact that he has to worry about his eccentric family, his recently ex-wife gives him the bombshell that she’s pregnant, that the baby has to be his because the guy she cheated on him with is sterile, and that they have to deal with this together. Of course, the guy is still figuring out how to fall out of love with her, and so her presence in his life isn’t going to help. This part is the part that really resonated with me.

The fact is, and I’m starting to get the feeling this is true of all relationships, there is no such thing as a clean break. None whatsoever. It’s human nature to fuck that premise up, and when you put that task to two people, forget about it. Shit is bound to occur.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. I just felt like writing this fact, maybe help me get it straight. But even though it’s there, in front of me, on the screen, I know I’m going to fuck it up.

I’m only human.

This phenomena isn’t exclusive to Murphy, though. You want conspiracy theories and scientific phenomena? You call J. J. Abrams. Of course, the thing about Abrams is, he can meld his area depending on who his cowriters are. You want government conspiracies, McGuffins, and gun toting action babes? Abrams will be flanked by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman, who helped Abrams on Alias and co-created Fringe (another show I can’t wait to see return). You want Star Wars references, philosophical discussions, and mindfucks galore. Allow me to introduce you to Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof, who you’ve seen previously on Lost. (Yes, that last sentence was intended.)

Josh Shwartz is the guy you go to for 80s cheese and the pulse of teen pop culture, for he is behind two of television’s most awesome shows, Chuck and Gossip Girl (yes, I watch Gossip Girl, and yes, I think it is awesome. Too girly at times, but still awesome. Also, I have an unhealthy obsession with Blair Waldorf. Really Unhealthy.).

I could go on and on about the two Davids, Chase and Simon, and Matthew Weiner, but, as their shows attest, it is better if you let them do the talking. So I’m telling you, if you haven’t watched Mad Men, The Sopranos, or The Wire, do so now.

My name is Doctor Impossible, and I’m a TV addict.

Anyway, as you can probably guess, this post is about nothing. It’s just an excuse for me to write some shit down and, fuck, I don’t know, kill time. Because I can do that, you know. I can take a knife and shove it in time’s chest and call it my bitch. Because time, as Justin’s dad will tell you, is a bitch, and I have decided to make it mine.

On another, more awesome note, visit that link above. That guy has the best twitter feed ever.

What do I do? What the fuck do I do? This chick is lying dormant on my bedroom floor, she’s dead I just know it, she’s fucking dead. Oh God, oh God. I shouldn’t have given her that pill, man. She was way too plastered to handle E, dude. Way too fucking plastered. And, wasn’t there remnants of coke on her nose? Shit, the bitch has coke? Where the fuck is the coke?

Whew. There that’s all better. Now I can think clearly. Relax, man. Just fucking relax. She’s a nobody. Look through her purse. See what the hell is in there, maybe she has some cash, or shit, maybe some more coke.

FUCK… This bitch is loaded and connected. Oh fuck fuck, she’s Guillermo’s cousin. And the bastard is calling her. Wasn’t he supposed to be here with my fucking coke an hour ago? Shit shit shit. I gotta call him, he can’t come here now. He’ll shoot me. I already owe him money.

Holy shit, that’s a lot of cash. A lot of cash. Oh fuck she works with Guillermo, too. I know I’ve seen her before- at his place? At the club? Where the FUCK have I seen her before? Who the hell is at my door?

Guillermo. What the fuck is it, man? What do you want now? Didn’t you get my text? (I never actually got around to sending him that, but fuck man, he doesn’t know that.) My coke? Hold on, hold on.

Oh.

Fuck.

Everything about these fuckers screams douche bag. The entire population could be cast in “My New Haircut”. While there are exceptions, of course, the majority of these fucks has it in his head that he is God’s gift to the world, that there isn’t anyone better than he is. My question to this is why?

I have met many Lebanese people and, in a room with no Lebanese people around, they are awesome to be around. Put him in a room with other Lebanese people and all of a sudden, the soft spoken, seemingly normal individual transforms into Leon from those Reebok commercials.

The blog Basketbawful coined the term Masshole to describe people from Boston whose insecurities about being inferior to New York glorify every Patriots, Celtics, and Red Sox victory to the second coming of Christ. I would like to introduce a new term describing Lebanese people.

Lebadouche.

Yes, it’s a work in progress, I know, but it sounds like something a Lebanese person would say.

To be honest, I think it’s just work that’s bugging the bejesus out of me. I used to be able to stomach it because I’d just go to the gym and blow off steam afterwards, but ever since Ramadan started, and my wrist fell victim to DeQuelvain’s disease, Doctor Impossible’s physique isn’t what it used to be. Sure, I run and do abs, but weights are different. Weights let you blow off the steam, and there isn’t enough cardio in the world that can match that feeling.

Well, except for basketball.

That reminds me. I am going to start on the basketball thing again, rusty discouragments be damned.

I went last week and, to put it mildly, I was rusty. To put it not so mildly, I sucked a bunch of monkey balls. I was afraid to shoot, drive, and was beaten on defense so much I seriously wanted to stop playing in the middle of the game. The thing with me is, when I’m playing with a bunch of folks who I know are better than I am, I tense up and always look to pass because I don’t wanna fuck up. The fucking thing of it is that by doing that, I am tensing up and in turn fucking up. I know, I know. I tell myself all the time, just play your game. It’s just that my mind won’t register what I’m telling it to do. Then that just spirals out of control and I hate playing basketball, which to me is a sin. I LOVE PLAYING BASKETBALL. It is the most fun I can have with most of my clothes on, to paraphrase an old advertising cliche. So today, I’m not gonna give a fuck. I’m not going to think, not going to tense up, not doing none of that shit.

I’m just gonna play.

Your mom told me.

Anyway, what the fuck am I to do? I got work in the morning and it’s not like caffeine is going to help me stay awake because, oh by the way, its Ramadan and, oh by the way, I can’t eat or drink anything til sunset. And how the fuck am I going to play basketball all tired and shit? Major hinderance to the workout plan this sleep deprivation is starting to be.

Shit, I knew I shouldn’t have started writing at this hour. Now I’m wide awake.

Fuck sleep deprivation. It’s the fucking Devil. Yeah, that’s right. Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer. I am all out of names of el Diablo, and I think that just did the trick.

Later bitches. Konichiwa pillow.

Allow me to get a head start on the debate by saying women shop to relieve their stress. It’s like men and strip clubs, you know. (Well, if you’re a girl, no you don’t.) I think that for women, shopping relieves stress in the same way seeing a pair of tits relieves stress for men. That is, for women, shoes = titties.

What’s saddening is that some men have taken to that approach as well. In a recent article for Details magazine, a study showed that more men are going shopping when they get a raise or want to celebrate. The strip club ethos is dying. Men, like women, want to commemorate their events with something tangible like a pair of shoes instead of blowing their bonuses on booze and drugs, two things that won’t last as long as designer belts or shirts. I mean, sure, that’s understandable, but I just think it’s sad.

Of course, that’s probably because I’m an alcoholic.